


Decrepit

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: There's one day a year that Miranda continuously dreads, and it's one nuisance that even she is powerless to prevent.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 22
Kudos: 227





	Decrepit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MeadowUndertown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeadowUndertown/gifts).



Wrinkles. Drooping cheekbones. Swollen bags. Red-rimmed eyes. Every morning is a new venture into a ritual of self-depracation, her mirror twin staring critically at her displeased countenance.

She can't pinpoint the exact moment she transitioned from a woman into an old woman, but the truth looks her in the eye every day, reminding her of her age, her deterioration, the lie behind a well-crafted façade.

Fifty-fucking-one.

She once thought life ended at forty, especially in her line of work. And when that didn't happen, the big 5-0 was sure to be her expiration date, but every day since then, she remains standing, and with that endurance goes every good part of her, gradually and cruelly preparing her for the end.

Her breasts are not what they used to be, having succumbed to gravity and two hungry infants; her belly has long lost its tautness, excess skin sagging despite a strict diet and regular workout regime, and the early signs of menopause are becoming increasingly hard to ignore. Without makeup, she would reveal to the world the blemishes and lines mapped across her face, tired eyelids and reddened nose and cheeks sprinkled with enlarged pores in spite of the dry state of her skin and the best products money can buy. And the lighting above her bathroom mirror isn't helping either. Why did she ever decide upon LED lights? Their unforgiving glow accentuates every unflattering feature and indication of age she'd rather deny.

It's that awful, dreadful day again, the one she can never seem to forget or avoid against every valiant effort, sneaking up on her with its ugly claws and diabolical smile and dragging her further down a path of suffering and misery.

It's her birthday.

\---

Striding brusquely into the office with a loud, rhythmic clacking of her heels, Miranda ignores her second assistant's sunny, albeit wary "Hi, Miranda," and dumps her handbag and coat before her with a _thwack!_

"Get me Mario," she orders on her pointed way to her inner sanctum. She's in no mood for chitter-chatter, certainly no dallying; there's plenty of hours left in the day and she's adamant to get through them all as quickly as possible and bury the occasion for another year.

From the first assistant's desk, Andrea Sachs sends a tight, sympathetic smile to Natalie, who picks up the phone and dials while Miranda stalks into her office, spots a large bouquet on her desk, and freezes.

Casting an inconspicuous glance sideways, toward where both assistants sit, unaware, she proceeds inside. White, blossoming lilies are interspersed with pink and purple tulips and fern, framed by their own, tall leaves. In the center, a small, cream-colored card perches on the petals, the cursive writing on it reading only two words: _From F.A._

Lips tightly pinched, she seizes the glass vase, careful of flowers in her face, and heads toward the table in the corner of the room, where she heedlessly discards it out of sight. It may as well have balloons and a "you're a year closer to death" banner attached and she finds the gesture neither amusing nor heartwarming in the slightest.

"I have Mario," Natalie calls from her desk, prompting her to take her seat behind hers. From there, she's immortal and invincible, ruling her kingdom like no other, sowing fear in the hearts of underlings and inspiring awe and respect in the minds of the rest. That is something no one can take away from her, aged fifty or thirty or eighty, and the position calls forth a regal bearing and a posture to suit the status, her back naturally straightening, her legs crossing at the knee as she reaches for her phone, instantly immersing herself in her work.

Later that morning, barging into her office with an open folder in his hands, Nigel sidles up to her chair, towering above her, and places it on the desk for her to review the glossies from the latest photoshoot. "We did what we could to hide the bump, but she looks like she had three muffins right before the shoot," he complains about the pregnant model, her secret exposed through the camera lens. "At least half of these are completely useless."

"They're not useless," she counters sedately, pulling the folder closer. She's calm, but begrudgingly so; they can't afford to redo an entire shoot. Just the cherry on top of an already aggravating day and it's not even noon yet. "Have the art department touched these up?"

"Not yet," Nigel admits, "but there's only so much they can do."

"Have them minimize the stomach as much as possible." She touches her fingers to one picture, pursing her lips in thought. "Place the writing over her middle--big, bold letters."

"Thank god for photoshop," Nigel sighs, slapping the folder shut. On his way out, his eye catches the bouquet in the corner, an eyebrow arching. "Secret admirer?"

Miranda only spares a quick glimpse in the general direction before letting out a noncommittal hum and returning to her work. Nigel, however, persists with a smirk, "Let me know where I can find myself one."

"You can take it for all I care," she murmurs offhandedly.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to do that," he replies conspiratorially and approaches her again. "You may be able to fool everyone here, but I know what today is."

A scowl nearly betrays her irritation, but instead Miranda masks it with the usual, closed-off look of nonchalance, uncapping a pen. "And you'll keep your mouth shut if you wish to keep your job."

Snickering, Nigel does as he's told, and her eyes lift from her notebook long enough to watch him leave.

\---

She returns home at the end of the day to the sound of three distinct voices, floating down the hall from their source in the kitchen: a less than pleasant surprise. Their conversation is oblivious to her presence, the occasional knife chopping down on a cutting board or pan clanking against the stove providing a soundtrack to the constant bickering as Miranda makes her pointed way toward the noise.

In the kitchen, one of her daughters leans against the counter with her phone in her hands, eyes glued to the bright screen, while the other angles curiously toward a sizzling pan, where Miranda's first assistant carefully stirs a thick, aromatic sauce. The light in the oven is on, the sink brimming with dirty dishes, and the kitchen comes to life with warmth and chatter and smells of meat and butter and herbs.

"What is going on here?" Miranda's sharp voice slices through the moment, tugging three different expressions in her direction: one looks guilty, the other peeved, and Andrea Sachs smiles brightly her way.

"Hey!" she chirps, halting her hand's movement. "You're home."

Setting her bag on a chair, Miranda's hands rise to the furry lapels of her coat. "And you are not," she states icily, then finds her children's gazes. "Dare I ask what this is all about?"

Caroline, the one standing at the kitchen island next to Andrea and looking guiltier, wastes no time pointing a finger at the culprit. "She made us do it."

Cassidy, lowering her phone and pushing off of the counter, lifts bored eyes to Andy. "Can I go back to my room now?"

"No," Andrea answers with the kind of impatience that suggests this isn't Cassidy's first plea. Then she smiles at Miranda again, but this time it looks strained. "We're making dinner."

"I told her you'd hate it," Caroline is quick to chime in.

"It's your favorite meal," Andrea interjects and shows her teeth in a grimace. "Happy Birthday."

Face hardened, Miranda drops her coat on the back of the chair holding her bag and swiftly turns on her heel.

"Oh, no, no." Andrea rushes after her as she marches back the way she came, a spoon splashing white sauce in her wake. She catches Miranda halfway to the stairs, grabbing her wrist, pleading, "Miranda."

Turning in her grasp, Miranda glowers. "We are not doing this."

"Come on." Andrea tilts her head to the side. "You have to have a birthday dinner. It's a Sachs birthday tradition."

"My tradition"--the fire in Miranda's eyes intesifies--"is ignoring it."

"Please?" Wide eyes implore in a perfect immitation of a bruised puppy. "We worked really hard and we wanna celebrate with you." In the kitchen, Cassidy's eyes are back on her phone while Caroline inspects her fingernails. "Just have dinner with us. Just a normal dinner, nothing fancy. You have to eat after all."

Miranda considers the request, but only because she hasn't yet eaten dinner and the smells wafting out of the kitchen make her stomach quietly grumble. Still, she purses her lips and directs a cold look at the woman who insists on making her life more difficult at every chance she gets.

"No cake, no candles, no presents, no singing."

"Fine," Andrea says around a toothful smile, which means Miranda's rules mean no more to her than a suggestion.

"I thought you said you had to leave early for a dentist appointment," Miranda says archly.

"Did I? Huh." Nonchalantly, Andrea sticks out her chin and heads back down the hall, leaving Miranda no choice but to begrudgingly follow.

But she dines with her teenagers and assistant nonetheless, disguising her pleasure with the three's concoctions while conversation and laughter resumes around her, filling her house with noise and cheer on that grievous day.

When dinner is finished and the kids have dispersed back to their respective rooms, Andrea rises from the table with a stack of plates and cutlery and walks to the sink. Miranda releases a long-suffering sigh and joins her with their emptied wine glasses.

Turning to her, Andrea smiles a sly, knowing, smug smile. "So, it wasn't so bad, was it?" Miranda glares. "Did you like the flowers?"

"No," she enunciates, but Andrea is unperturbed. Rolling her eyes, she sighs again. "What does F.A. stand for?"

"Favorite Assistant." Andrea's smile turns cheeky.

"What makes you so sure of that?" Miranda's voice is low, dangerous.

"This," Andrea replies and leans in for a kiss that's distracting enough for her to not put up a fight. Instead, she winds her arm around Andrea's curved frame, tugging her closer as the kiss becomes deeper, the taste and texture of Andrea's mouth familiar and comforting.

"Why don't you," Andrea murmurs against her lips and kisses them some more, "meet me in the bedroom in five minutes?"

Miranda pulls back, an eyebrow quirked knowingly. "Why?"

"Why do you think?" Andrea smirks and before Miranda can react or rebuke, she's walking away.

\---

"Andrea?" she calls into the empty room, closing the door behind her.

"Just a second," she hears, slightly muffled behind the bathroom door, light spilling into the dimly lit bedroom through the cracks. A moment later, Andrea emerges in a cashmere robe, tied securely around her middle.

"You're wearing my robe," Miranda observes disapprovingly.

Andrea's shoulders slump. "Will you stop being so grumpy?"

"You know I don't like celebrating my birthday."

"It was just a dinner, Miranda," she sighs. "I knew you wouldn't want anything big. I thought you'd enjoy spending time with your family. And..." She looks away. "With me."

"I do that already," states Miranda and Andrea sighs again. "Why would I want a reminder of this day over my head the entire time?"

"Because, Miranda," Andrea grinds out, her patience wearing thin, "sometimes your birthday isn't just about you, but about the people who care about you and want to celebrate it with you."

"Is it now?"

"So you're fifty-one!" she snaps, taking Miranda aback. Her arms jerk upward while her cheeks gradually redden. "You're growing old, so what? Everybody does. But not everyone is so _insecure_ about--"

"I'm _not_ \--" Miranda begins to hiss, but gets cut off.

"Yes, you are! And it's ridiculous because you're the most confident person I know, but you can't deal with being a year older. You think anybody cares? You think _I_ care? I want you because you're you, and because of everything that makes you you, and I wouldn't want to give any aspect of that up because then you wouldn't be the person I love-- t-the-- what I mean--" Andrea quickly backtracks, her heated speech coming to a stammering halt while her face flushes further.

And Miranda, who, for all intents and purposes should be fuming at the reprimand administered to her, finds herself holding back an amused smirk even as she lightly probes, "Yes?"

"I didn't say anything," Andrea mumbles, her neck and chest adopting a pink tint as well.

Even so, Miranda decides that a small amount of torture is a suitable punishment for today. "I was sure I heard--"

"You know what I said," Andrea interrupts quietly, coyly meeting her gaze through lowered eyelashes. She quickly recovers, however, because her fingers gently tug on the sash of Miranda's stolen robe while she takes a step closer. "Now stop being so difficult so I can give you your present."

Miranda, who always gets the last word, can't help saying, "I thought I said no presents."

"Miranda." Andrea glares, clearly back on firmer ground. "Take your clothes off and get your ass in bed."

Something clenches inside Miranda then, and this time she does smirk as she passes her girlfriend on the way to the bed, making sure to brush her shoulder with her own. "So demanding," she mutters through her pinched-lipped smile.

When she's completed her task, reclining against the sheets in nothing but, well, her birthday suit, Andrea turns to her, the robe untied but held teasingly around her torso, hiding what's underneath. "Well?" Miranda drawls challengingly. "Give me my present."

At Andrea's long, unrelenting stare, she knows then and there that she's not going to have it easy tonight. But the next moment, in a quick, fluid motion, the robe is parted and shrugged off to reveal a lacy, black and burgundy set of corset bra and thong, topped off by a matching garter belt that holds a pair of black stockings high up on Andrea's thighs.

Andrea stands there, unmoving, giving Miranda her own challenging look while the latter inhales sharply through her nostrils. "See something you like?" asks Andrea, her tone deceptively sweet.

Miranda, in response, curls her index finger. "Come here." And for once, Andrea doesn't argue. She crawls onto the mattress, slowly and enticingly, making sure the sway of her ass is noticible, and between the legs that generously part for her, hovering over Miranda's body as her hair falls around her face in silken strands, assaulting Miranda's nose with the smell of lavender.

"Was there something you wanted?" Andrea whispers with a knowing grin, but nevertheless acquiesces without a fight when Miranda's fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her down for a long kiss that leaves them both breathing heavily.

With one hand on Andrea's ass, pulling her tighter to her body, Miranda reaches behind her back for the bra clasps while Andrea nibbles her way down the column of her neck. Her lips draw a scorching path on the skin, teeth grazing with a barely contained passion, before she withdraws, eliciting an involuntary whimper from Miranda, and settles on her knees. Her hands cup a covered breast each, holding the unhooked undergarment against her body. Then slowly, teasingly, she slides the straps down her arms, freeing her breasts for Miranda's hungry eyes to feast on.

Before she can get to them, though, her breaths turning into pants, Andrea moves away, leaning over the side of the bed and opening a drawer. A moment later, she's holding a velvety piece of fabric, dangling its length before Miranda's face. "Yes?" she ascertains, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," Miranda agrees breathlessly and her reaction paints a new, salacious grin across Andrea's features, her eyes gleaming wickedly.

Bending back down, she stretches her body over Miranda's own once more, taking her lips in hers. And while Miranda is preoccupied with the softness of her lips and tongue, Andrea wraps her fingers around a pliant wrist, bringing it up to rest on the pillow above Miranda's head, quickly joined by the other one. Miranda's chest begins to heave, her kisses growing distracted by her labored, anticipatory breathing, before Andrea's lips detatch altogether for her attention to be focused on the task of binding Miranda's wrists together, the velvet delicate and luxurious against her heated skin.

Andrea tugs at the fabric, making sure the knot is tight enough but not painful, and at Miranda's subtle nod, she smiles. "It's time you let go of some control," she whispers, lowering her head back down, and then they're kissing again, the gears shifting, their need and urgency doubling. Miranda's leg wraps around a thigh, her ankle nudging Andrea closer while her bare breast is taken in a soft, warm palm and massaged. From her throat, a desperate moan is yanked and swallowed by Andrea's kiss.

"What do you want?" Andrea asks against her lips, her breath hot and smelling of wine, while her hand sneaks between their bodies, sliding down. At the first touch to her mons, Miranda jolts. "This?"

"Ye-- mmm," she moans again, arching against Andrea's fingers, which still right above where she needs them. She catches Andrea's lower lip between her teeth before it's retracted.

"Ask nicely."

"I thought," Miranda pants, squirming against the bed covers, against her restraints, "I thought this was my birthday present."

The second the words are out of her mouth, she regrets them because Andrea's lips promptly quirk in an evil, little smirk that tells her she's in big trouble. "But you don't celebrate your birthday," she points out tauntingly and, before Miranda can catch her breath to dispute her, plunges two fingers inside.

The last remaining vestiges of oxygen in her lungs effectively stolen, Miranda gasps and curls the fingers of her bound hands, arching her back clear off the mattress. Between her spread legs, the fingers begin to move ever so slowly while their owner lets out a self-satisfied hum. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Faster," Miranda gasps again, pushing hard against the intrusion, and for a change, Andrea complies.

The squelching noise of movement in wetness would, under any other circumstance, mortify her; as it is, it's all she can do not to scream and attract the attention of the two teens down the hall. Besides, so long as she can get as naturally aroused as her young lover, the sound is welcome.

With a newfound devotion, Andrea pounds into her and silences the resultant, choked, desperate sounds with her lips. Above her head, Miranda's immobile arms stretch, pulling at the fabric around her wrists as her head dips back into the pillow, her freed lips releasing a breathless groan.

"More?" Andrea breathes into her exposed neck, licking where she's dampened the skin. Miranda doesn't think her vocal chords would cooperate with her brain and vehemently nods instead, whimpering when she feels the tip of a third finger at her entrance. She stretches, she burns a little, and even then the addition is welcome. In no time, she's accustomed to the new girth and rolling her hips against Andrea's hand in a silent demand that Andrea understands and follows.

" _Oh_ ," she groans again, deep and low, at the pace Andrea sets, meeting her thrust for thrust while around her everything dissolves into a blur. Somewhere in the hazy fog, she registers a new sensation clenching and clawing at her, tendrils of pleasure spreading through her taut body and curling around every muscle as Andrea's thumb rubs her clit in tandem with her fingers' motion.

When she sinks back into the bed, spent and sweaty and gradually slipping out of her delirium, she's pulsing between her legs, gulping oxygen, and her arms and shoulders are screaming in protest at the pressure put on them. Andrea, kissing her way down her body, stops at her breasts to take a hard nipple in her hot mouth.

"Andrea," she sighs, her chest rising and sinking in a rapid rhythm.

"Mmhmm." Andrea gently bites the underside of her breast before leisurely kissing a path to the other one. Miranda can feel the curve of her pleased smile on her skin, hear it in her voice.

"I can't feel my arms."

Raising her head, Andrea's eyes are bright and her smile has broadened. "Oh." She lifts off of Miranda and reaches above her and, at last released, Miranda shakes her arms and rubs at her reddened wrists while Andrea rolls off to the side and discards of the binding. When she's settled back at Miranda's side, Miranda inches closer and starts caressing a warm, smooth thigh, playing with the edge of a stocking.

"Well," she purrs with the sweetest gleam of revenge in her eye, "it's my turn now."

But to her surprise, Andrea says, "Not yet," making her pause and stare in puzzlement, her fingers stilling on the clasp of the garter belt. "Come up here."

Despite her very recent release, a new ache presents itself in Miranda's lower belly, her insides quivering and throbbing with renewed interest because she understands precisely the intention behind the vague order.

And indeed, in moments' time, her trembling thighs are straddling Andrea's head, knees barely holding her weight up while Andrea's fingers dig into her hips and her tongue licks at the evidence of her orgasm all around the one area that's too sensitive to the touch.

As she undulates and moans, biting her lip and trying not to grind too hard, Miranda silently muses that there are worse ways to spend her birthday. Sure, she's getting old, her control is slowly slipping away, faced by nature's adamant force, and it's only going to go downhill from here. But so far, she's already on her way to her second orgasm of the night, eaten out by her twenty-year-old lover, and if only in that moment, she feels indestructible.

All in all, the day turned out better than she'd expected. Perhaps next year she'll allow the occasion to be acknowledged again. Maybe she and Andrea could go out to celebrate. It's something to consider, she thinks, and then Andrea's hand travels up her abdomen and grabs a breast and she sighs and stops thinking altogether.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Miranda's birthday was canonically a month ago today, but today-today is **MeadowUndertown** 's birthday and she wanted me to write a fic where Miranda celebrates her birthday by sitting on Andy's face, so this is my little gift to her. Happy Birthday, babe!


End file.
